


Just Got Lucky

by sunken_standard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Not Series 2 Compliant, Poker, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you were to ask Sherlock how he ended up at the final table in a high-stakes, no-limit Texas Hold 'em tournament being filmed for broadcast on American television, he would simply wave you off and tell you it was for a case. If you were to ask John, he'd tell you it was because his flatmate was an ego-maniacal twat that would go to almost any length to prove a point.<br/>(Not Series 2 compliant, see notes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Got Lucky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madder_badder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madder_badder/gifts).



> Originally posted to my LiveJournal on April 16th, 2011.
> 
> Written for the help_nz auction on LiveJournal for madder_badder, who wanted to see Sherlock and John on vacation. This what fell out instead.
> 
> Originally beta read by [Mazarin221B](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b) and [blue_eyed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_eyed/pseuds/blue_eyed); I've done some editing (changed tenses for clarity) since then, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> The title is from [the song of the same name](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-kfmuGHtxo) by JoBoxers. 
> 
> A working knowledge of poker, specifically Texas Hold 'em, might make this fic easier to read in places. A good primer, along with a glossary of poker terms, can be found [here](http://entertainment.howstuffworks.com/poker.htm) (or see end notes).

 

If you were to ask Sherlock how he ended up at the final table in a high-stakes, no-limit Texas Hold 'em tournament being filmed for broadcast on American television, he would simply wave you off and tell you it was for a case. If you were to ask John, he'd tell you it was because his flatmate was an ego-maniacal twat that would go to almost any length to prove a point.

 

The case itself had been interesting enough. Two security guards, a dealer, a floorman, a Suicide Girl, a valet, and three players had been arrested for trying to throw the tournament. With a top prize of just over ten mil, each would have walked away a millionaire and then some. It had taken three days and Sherlock's advancement to the final round of the tournament to put all the pieces together, but by that time, he and John were barely on speaking terms.

 

♥  ♦ ♣ ♠

 

John had always had an affinity for gambling. Risk-taking and the rush of coming out on top were addictive, and if there was one thing he got from the Watson side, it was a predisposition for addiction. The nature of his risk-taking was tempered by the sensibility of his Mum's side, so he'd never been inclined to try jumping from very high places as a child or doing anything illegal as a teenager.

 

Betting on races or football scores wasn't his thing. Slots, dice games, and roulette were all chance, no strategy and no challenge. Blackjack was decent, if you were into quick games. But poker? That was thrilling. He'd played a bit of stud and draw with his mates in Uni, nickel-and-dime games (a term he'd only learned later), with vouchers for housework and girls' phone numbers finding their way into the pot when things got interesting. It wasn't until he was in Rwanda with Médecins Sans Frontières that he'd learned Texas Hold 'em from one of the Americans in his camp. They'd used the contents of care packages as stakes and, by the first month, John had had a monopoly on the camp's supply of gum and hand lotion.

 

It had been much the same after signing up for the RAMC, although the officers liked to play with real money. John had gained a bit of a reputation by the time he'd been deployed, and the other officers had wished him luck but said their wallets weren't sorry to see him go.

 

In Afghanistan, they played for chips only because no one had much to spare in the way of tiny luxuries and no one could be arsed to figure out the exchange rates on paper currency. Most patients were only there long enough to be stabilized and shipped home or patched up and sent back to their units, but there were always games going while soldiers waited for transport. John hadn't played in many of those games -- even if the pots weren't for anything tangible, it had still felt wrong to be cleaning out a bunch of kids that could die any day.

 

And then John had almost died, and everything had lost its shine for a while. He'd played a bit on his laptop, but it was different. He'd still done it though, chasing the echo of the thrill that the real games had given him. He'd ended up losing most of his savings and accruing a bit of debt while he'd been stuck in hospital between surgeries to repair his shoulder. In retrospect, trying to play while heavily dosed with painkillers and slowly sinking into a deep depression had not been the best choice he'd ever made.

 

Then he'd met Sherlock and he'd found a better way to get his kicks. He still met up with Murray and a few of Murray's mates every now and then for a friendly game, but his heart wasn't in it. He usually ended up walking away with his pockets a few pounds lighter, but a smile on his face.

 

Some of his most epic rows with Sherlock had been over the stupidity of gambling. It wasn't that Sherlock cared about the money John lost (never more than he could afford, John had learned his lesson) -- it was a matter of principal. Sherlock thought it was all a matter of luck and that the only skill involved was reading and manipulating the other players. More than once, John had tried to explain odds and strategies associated with a number of possible hands, but Sherlock didn't seem to care about the maths. From there it had always devolved into the core issue of Sherlock's imperiousness vs. John's right to do as he pleased when they weren't working a case, and had usually ended with doors being slammed and one of them leaving the flat for an indeterminate period of time.

 

No wonder everyone thought they were a couple.

 

♥  ♦ ♣ ♠

 

So when the case that had brought them to Las Vegas in the first place turned out to be centred on a high-stakes Texas Hold 'em tournament, John thought Sherlock would have finally observed enough to realize that it wasn't all just luck and manipulation. They both entered the first round (a $25k buy-in, bankrolled by the casino; that was only a fraction of what they'd stand to lose if the media ever got wind of the fact that such a high-profile game had been thrown) with fabricated identities to find the parties involved. Sherlock read a quick primer on the basic rules of the game and watched a few hours of Final Table footage from a few World Series tournaments, declining John's offer of playing a couple practice hands (which hurt, if John were completely honest, as did all the other times Sherlock had deemed John's various skills wanting) in preparation, and away he went.

 

They both made it to the second round, and by that time Sherlock had figured out that the cards were being marked with a special dye that was only visible under the casino lighting by a special filter. Sherlock, mad chemist that he was, was able to whip up a concoction that, when spread over the lenses of regular non-Polarized sunglasses, worked as a the same kind of filter. From there they were able to eliminate a handful of possible suspects simply by what they'd worn to the table.

 

For the next round, Sherlock made John keep the sunglasses on. John had always been a purist when playing - no good luck charms, no rituals, no hats, no hoodies, no sunglasses. Just _wearing_ the sunglasses was disconcerting and felt wrong. When combined with the knowledge of what everyone else was holding and that he was, himself, cheating, John was thrown off his game. He was the first one eliminated from his table.

 

Sherlock raged at that, not understanding how it could have happened. John was sure that if the case had already been solved, the man would have entered into an epic sulk in their hotel room. As it stood, John was left in their room with a stack of files and discs containing security camera footage to vet the rest of the suspects based on movement and interaction with the other players and casino staff. It was tedious work, even for him, but he was able to make a connection between a security guard and one of the floormen as a source for the marked cards, so it wasn't all for naught.

 

Then Sherlock came whirling into the room, two garment bags slung over his arm, fresh from another victory and with a spot at the final table. They'd been invited to some kind of black-tie party by one of the high-rollers that Sherlock had knocked out with a bluff earlier in the tournament. Also in attendance: a collection of highly sought-after call girls, one of whom had been spotted with one of the suspected players and who happened to be the girlfriend of a dealer in the tournament.

 

As predicted, the party was excruciating. It wasn't that John minded wearing a tuxedo or hobnobbing with a bunch of rich, beautiful people. He could hold his own in just about any conversation, thank you very much. It wasn't even watching Sherlock get a lapdance from one of the hired girls, or seeing him smoke like a chimney and pretend to throw back expensive scotch like it was water. It was when John overheard Sherlock propose a threesome "with his friend" to one of the girls (covered in tattoos and more metal in her face than what held John's shattered shoulder together; couldn't have been older than 24, tops) that he had just about enough. He politely excused himself and found the nearest bar, intent on either finding a one-night stand of his own or drinking until he didn't care.

 

Hunched over the bar, shirt collar unbuttoned and bow-tie hanging loose around his neck, John had a tiny epiphany. At first he thought he'd been angry at the nature of Sherlock's presumption and the lengths he'd go to for a case. He knew that Sherlock would have found a way out of it before anything went too far, but only after he'd got whatever information he was looking for from the girl. That wasn't the issue, though.

 

John had long known Sherlock didn't hold anything sacred and that he certainly didn't respect other people's privacy. He'd probably long-ago deduced the depth and breadth of John's sexual experience and assumed John amenable to playing along -- after all, it's not like a threesome with another bloke was something John hadn't ever done.

 

Relatively speaking, this incident didn't even make the top ten list of ways Sherlock had affronted John's not-so-delicate sensibilities. John sat staring down into his vodka tonic and wondering, then, why he felt like one giant, raw nerve. Maybe the effects of Sherlock's constant insults and denigration had finally had a cumulative effect. That didn't seem likely to John, since he'd been brushing those things off for well over a year now. No, the issue was definitely centred on Sherlock and sex.

 

That was a connection John had so far actively resisted making, with very few slip-ups. Sherlock had never once discussed sex or sexuality (unrelated to a case) after his awkward married-to-my-work speech, nor had John ever seen him take any kind of interest in anyone. John was fairly certain Sherlock was asexual. That was fine, he'd said all fine and meant it. But then, to hear the offer made so casually... that stung.

 

Rationally, he knew it hadn't been a personal sleight. Sherlock was just being Sherlock. It hadn't been intentional cruelty (although he was quite capable of that, but never without provocation), but more of an issue of Sherlock stumbling upon a trigger John hadn't previously known he had. So far, John had been able to keep his thoughts about Sherlock in check, but right then he felt like some kind of Pandora's box had been opened.

 

John wasn't in the business of lying to himself, not in the past, and not then. He'd harboured strong feelings for Sherlock practically from the first day he met the man, and those feelings had grown into something he didn't want to admit the depth of to himself, mostly because Sherlock was _OFF LIMITS_ in bold, flashing neon letters. He resisted the very notion at first. The reasons why having romantic feelings for him was a bad idea were numerous and varied, from the obvious (Sherlock's lack of interest, their working relationship, John's previously firmly-rooted sexual identity) to the inconsequential (their siblings' and colleagues' reactions or lack thereof), but no amount of rationalization would change things.

 

John was a realist, if nothing else. In terms of attraction, everyone (straight or gay) had an exception, he supposed, and who was more exceptional than Sherlock Holmes? So he dealt with those feelings the way he dealt with most other things, by keeping his eyes forward and soldiering on. Of course, if not having feelings was a matter of will alone, none of it would have been an issue in the first place.

 

John downed the last of his drink and signalled for another as he contemplated how he would talk his way out of any kind of real discussion (the kind that involved awkward admissions and the rebuff that was sure to follow) with Sherlock. He'd most definitely shown his hand, and in more ways than just the abstract I-don't-want-you-to-die way that Sherlock had, and on more than one occasion. Flouncing off and having a strop over Sherlock's insensitivity was nothing new, but when combined with all the other tiny clues over time, Sherlock had surely figured it out by then. John was convinced that it would only be a matter of time before Sherlock's tolerance of his mooning ended. John nursed the fresh drink while thinking up all the ways Sherlock would tell him that the interest wasn't mutual, ranging from stumbling-but-tactful to being made homeless upon his return to London.

 

John was pulled from his thoughts when his phone vibrated in his pocket with a text from Sherlock.

 

**The girl is in on it, was a organic chemistry major, formulated dye and marked cards. -SH**

 

John wondered how he gained that information, and found himself emphatically  _not_ wanting to know. He didn't bother responding. His phone buzzed again on the bar top a few minutes later.

 

**Stop feeling sorry for yourself, work to be done. -SH**

 

John snorted into his drink, but finished it quickly and then left to go back to the room. It was probably as close as Sherlock would ever come to acknowledging the reason for John's departure, and John hoped that to be the end of it.

 

Sherlock was undressing when John walked into the room. Barefoot and bare-chested, clad only in black satin-striped tuxedo trousers, it was a bit much for John to handle after the conversation he'd had with himself at the bar. He headed for the en-suite, intent on taking a hot shower to get the scent of smoke and booze off of his skin and clear his head, but Sherlock was suddenly in front of him nattering on about the case. Any other time he'd have been paying more attention, but he spotted a red smudge over Sherlock's collar bone.

 

"You've lipstick on your chest," he said before he realized he'd opened his mouth. It sounded more accusatory than a simple observation.

 

"You're drunk," Sherlock replied with equal parts surprise and disdain.

 

John shrugged him off and closed himself in the bathroom. Three drinks wasn't enough to get John even close to drunk, but he hadn't contradicted Sherlock. He heard Sherlock lurking outside the bathroom door before he turned on the water. By the time he finished with his shower, Sherlock had already left the room again. John settled in on his bed and stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep, resolutely not letting his eyes drift to Sherlock's rumpled bedding.

 

Sherlock bounded into the room sometime the following morning with the name of the valet that had transported the marked cards into and out of the casino. The only would-be criminals left to round up were the players that were in on the scam. Sherlock was sure that there weren't more than three initially and that he'd knocked one out of the game at his own table the day before. Out of the nine players set to start at the final table, six (not including Sherlock) were in the habit of wearing sunglasses. Of those six, Sherlock had eliminated two as suspects based on opportunity and motive.

 

The game was expected to last anywhere from twelve to seventeen hours, with breaks every three hours. By the second break, Sherlock had identified the two cheaters and had systematically eliminated them by calling one on a bluff and forcing the other to go all-in with an inferior hand.

 

Most of the break was taken up by Sherlock making a show of quietly talking on his mobile to his "Mum" (actually the casino's head of security) to report his findings. As soon as the phone call was concluded, John pulled Sherlock aside. He assumed Sherlock had lost all interest since the case had been solved.

 

"So, how long are you planning on staying in? It might look a bit fishy if you go all-in on a bad hand." John asked casually, trying to gauge how much longer he'd have to sit there and act as Sherlock's cheering section.

 

"Who says I'm not planning on winning?"

 

"Won't be winning if you're cheating, will it?" John countered.

 

"And who says I'll be cheating?" Sherlock asked with a smirk. He plucked the sunglasses from where they'd been resting on top of his head and slipped them onto John's face. One of the cameramen moved closer, his curiosity piqued by Sherlock's actions.

 

"It's all a mind game, John," he said, bending low and whispering in John's ear. John, well aware of the angle of the camera and what it would look like to anyone watching, felt his face flush bright red. Sherlock was just as aware, John was positive, and so his next action had to be a move to affect the other players. Had to be.

 

Sherlock cupped John's jaw, tipping his head back. He planted a (surprisingly) tender kiss on John's lips, then pulled back and said just loud enough for the microphone to pick up, "For luck." With a cheeky wink he whirled back to the table where the remaining four players had already taken their seats.

 

John went through a rapid series of emotions, from confusion to elation to disappointment to embarrassment, finally settling on low-simmering anger. Sherlock had crossed a line yet again, purely for the sake of a reaction and without regard to John's feelings.

 

♥  ♦ ♣ ♠

 

And so there John sat, in the darkened poker arena with two-hundred or so other spectators, family members, and real-time bloggers, watching in disbelief as Sherlock held his own against four other men - _professionals_ \- playing by behavioural observations alone. It was really too much, insult to injury. John followed along with the hands on the flatscreens that hung around the room (placed so the audience could see what was happening at the table) with interest. His anger began to fade the longer the game went on, replaced by genuine enthusiasm.

 

Sherlock's playing style had thus far been fairly loose and aggressive, and  only seemed to get more so without knowing what the other players were holding. Even the commentators had noticed and began to bandy about the phrase "dark horse" while making comparisons to a range of well-known players in the world of poker, speculating that he would go far on the pro tournament circuit if his performance tonight was anything to go by. John found it quite amusing.

 

After three folds on both blinds and a called bluff on a big hand, Sherlock was the short stack. He was so far down on chips that if he didn't win something substantial back in the next few hands, he'd be eliminated. On the very next hand, after a very intense round of betting, he went all-in with pocket jacks before the flop was even laid down. To say it was a bold move was an understatement -- pocket jacks were arguably the hardest hand to play. Sherlock wasn't playing his cards though, he was playing the two men who hadn't folded their hands immediately.

 

The suited six-eight spades to Sherlock's left folded, leaving him only one opponent. John held his breath as the other player (holding a ten and an ace, off-suit) fiddled with his chips. John was the first out of his seat when the man called. The flop yielded two cards that didn't help either of them and an ace, giving the other player the better hand -- a pair of aces beat a pair of jacks. John's stomach dropped as he watched the odds of winning expressed as a percentage next to Sherlock's name on-screen drop to a single digit. The turn card was a ten, giving the other man two pair, and the percentage dropped to four. Sherlock's face flashed on the screen - a calm, indifferent mask - and then the last card, the river card, was dealt, more a formality at that point than anything. 

 

It was a jack.

 

Sherlock's three of a kind had beat the other man's two pair.

 

John let out a whoop and punched the air. Sherlock's mouth twitched up into a tiny smile as he raked the pot toward himself.

 

"Stroke of good luck, that," he said to the player next to him. The way Sherlock enunciated the final consonant of 'luck' and the slight pause after the word was deliberately for John's benefit, he was sure. Sherlock being an arrogant prick didn't dampen the exhilaration John felt in that moment. It was like the vicarious excitement he felt when watching a rugby match on telly combined with that strange little bubble of pride he felt when Sherlock laid out a string of deductions to Lestrade while on a case.

 

By the next break, the table was down to four players, with the short stack sure to be knocked out in the first few hands after the game was resumed. Sherlock accepted a plastic cup of something from one of the casino staff and bummed a cigarette from one of the other player's girlfriends before sauntering up to John.

 

John refrained from lecturing him on the dangers of smoking while wearing multiple patches (applied to his ribs so the other players couldn't see them when he rolled up his sleeves), as he knew it was an argument that couldn't be won.

 

Instead, John chose to comment on the hand that had had the crowd going wild. "I would have folded," he said conversationally.

 

"I know you would have." Sherlock took a drag off his cigarette.

 

"Why didn't you? Roylott plays tight, you had to have known he had a good hand."

 

Sherlock sipped his drink and then set the cup down on the table behind him. He looked at John from the corner of his eye. "I was feeling lucky."

 

John had been expecting Sherlock to respond with a scornful dismissal or a brush-off. Was Sherlock saying what John thought he was saying? Sherlock didn't do subtle. Incomprehensible, yes, but never deliberately ambiguous. John amended that -- never deliberately ambiguous unless he was fishing for information. John tried to squash down the tendril of hope that unfurled in his chest.

 

Sherlock looked at him full-on, presumably reading all he needed to know from John's reaction. Somehow, a wire must have got crossed because after a few seconds, he blanked his expression and cleared his throat, looking at a fixed point over John's shoulder.

 

"Right. Forget I said anything." He physically drew away from John and began to back-pedal. "I apologize, I misread-"

 

For once, Sherlock had utterly failed to correctly interpret John's body language and facial expressions. He wondered disconnectedly how many times that had happened in the past and he'd missed it, then realized he needed to say something before Sherlock closed off or left entirely.

 

"No," John said sharply.

 

He took a step forward, chasing Sherlock's withdrawal right back into the man's personal space. John hesitated for a split second before making a grab for Sherlock to prevent a further retreat. Sherlock looked startled, his eyes darting to where John's hand was clamped around his wrist, then back up to John's face. John pulled him closer to his body and set his hand lightly on Sherlock's neck, a fair warning of what he was about to do. When he was met with no resistance, John tilted his head and pushed himself upward. He brushed a feather-light kiss over Sherlock's lips before pulling back. Sherlock followed John's mouth for a second until he caught himself, his eyes snapping wide open.

 

Sherlock looked down at John in wonder before his face split into a wide grin.

 

"Wouldn't want your luck to run out, would we?" John said, then grimaced at how incredibly cheesy he sounded.

 

Sherlock laughed, then twisted to drop his cigarette in the abandoned plastic cup. Then he was back and snogging the life out of John, tasting vaguely of tobacco and Coke. It wasn't a very long kiss, since they were surrounded by spectators and a camera crew and neither was fond of a spectacle, but it held a definite promise that once the event was over, there would be more.

 

Sherlock lounged back against the table looking well-pleased. His voice held a hint of amusement when he asked, "So you're admitting luck is an important factor in poker?"

 

"Still a game of strategy," John smiled back.

 

Gameplay resumed and, as predicted, the short stack was knocked out on the first hand. The game progressed quickly from there, the third player going bust within half an hour. It was down to Roylott and Sherlock. Four hands later, Sherlock was dealt another pair of pocket jacks on the big blind. Roylott raised, holding the three and six of hearts.

 

Sherlock checked and the flop was laid down -- two of hearts, two of clubs, five of hearts. Roylott only needed one more heart to make a flush and beat Sherlock's two pair, but Sherlock still had marginally better odds.

 

Sherlock went all-in before the turn card, causing a low murmur to flow through the crowd. Since their chips had been fairly evenly matched when the hand was dealt, Roylott would have to go all-in as well to call or be forced to fold, which would put Sherlock well ahead in chips.

 

"C'mon, C'mon," John chanted under his breath, hoping Roylott would fold.

 

Roylott called. That was it, the final hand.

 

_Please be a jack or a deuce_ , John thought as the turn card was flipped.  _Anything but a heart._

 

It was the king of hearts, and just like that, Sherlock had lost.

 

John frowned. He'd wanted Sherlock to win, even if he'd have been an insufferable git for being proved right (in his own mind at least, John had yet to be convinced that one could win by simply reading the other players while disregarding the cards one held) and the prize money would have been forfeited back to the casino. So much for luck.

 

Sherlock shook hands with Roylott - who was already out of his chair and jumping around like a football hooligan - and made his way through the swarming crowd to John, a smile on his face.

 

"Shame you didn't win," John said.

 

"I should have folded," Sherlock replied, practically beaming.

 

"So your luck didn't just run out?"

 

"John, as much as I enjoy the use of 'luck' as an extended metaphor, I'd rather we just went back to our room so you can properly console me after my crushing defeat."

 

John nodded. "Alright then." They dodged cameramen and tournament officials and ducked out through one of the staff exits, manned by one of the security guards who'd known of Sherlock's involvement with the casino.

 

In the service lift, Sherlock pulled John in for deep kiss. John felt something vibrate against his hip. "Your phone," he mumbled against Sherlock's lips. It was probably the casino manager or the head of security calling about the case.

 

"Don't care," Sherlock responded, changing the angle and sealing their mouths tight together. John felt him reach into his pocket and shut the phone off.

 

The lift stopped unexpectedly on the twelfth floor. They broke apart when the doors opened to see a tired-looking maid waiting with her cart.

 

She didn't even blink. "I'll get the next one," she said flatly.

 

Sherlock pressed the button to close the doors, then exchanged looks with John. They burst into a fit of laughter as the doors slid closed. Their giggles lasted until the lift stopped on the correct floor. Sherlock pulled John through the maze of corridors, keycard already in hand. They stumbled into the room, John kicking the door closed behind him (something he would never, ever do at home for fear of leaving a mark and Mrs. Hudson having his head on a platter). He pulled Sherlock back against him, using the door for support. He may have idly fantasized about a similar scenario once or twice, not that he was ready to admit it.

 

Sherlock must have known, or his skills of deduction hadn't been dulled by lust, because he shifted his mouth to the sensitive spot below John's ear and rumbled, "You've thought about this."

 

John grunted his assent as his hands bunched in the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. He pulled the smooth, fine cotton free from the back of Sherlock's trousers, needing to get to more skin. Sherlock nipped his earlobe and asked, "How long?"

 

John tried to focus on the question. "How long what?"

 

Sherlock moved back to John's neck, sucking gently on the pulse point. "How long have you been thinking about this? Me?"

 

With Sherlock's clarification, John's ardour dampened slightly. He didn't want to admit that he'd been half-infatuated with the man from the moment he'd realized Sherlock had cured his limp, especially when he'd been under the impression the feeling wasn't reciprocated. Hell, it might not have been until a few hours ago, which raised a whole other set of questions and possible complications that John didn't want to dwell on. Being secretly in love with his flatmate for the last year seemed like some kind of betrayal of trust, and also quite pathetic.

 

Sherlock pulled back, his focus razor-sharp even with his pupils blown wide. "You're uncomfortable. Why?"

 

John swallowed. "You really didn't know?"

 

Sherlock gave him a hard look. "John, when have you ever known me to draw a conclusion and not act upon it immediately? So again,  _how long_ ?"

 

"A while," John hedged, breaking eye contact. The mood was sufficiently ruined.

 

"Be specific," Sherlock countered, using his brook-no-arguments tone.

 

"You're clever, figure it out." The words came out as more of a challenge, albeit a quiet one, than he'd intended. John wished he could take a step back. Instead, he let his hands drop from Sherlock's waist and turned his head far enough to the side so that he didn't have to look directly at Sherlock's face.

 

Sherlock pulled away from him and turned, stalking farther into the room. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and paced as he thought out loud. "You're being defensive. You'd only be defensive if it had been for a longer amount of time than you think I would find acceptable. You haven't had more than two dates with the same woman in at least six months, so longer than that. Before that was Sarah, who you'd dated for a total of seven months on and off. You hadn't had sex with her until two months into the relationship and broke up for the first time shortly afterwards. So, sometime before the sex." He turned to John, drawing slightly closer and canting his shoulder toward John's body in a familiar, imploring gesture. "The pool. It was from then, wasn't it?"

 

John hesitated. Sherlock had already traced it back that far, there was no sense in lying to him now. He opened his mouth to contradict Sherlock, but didn't have the chance to say anything before Sherlock's brow furrowed and he resumed his pacing.

 

John started again, then cleared his throat. "Longer, actually."

 

Sherlock buried one hand in his hair and rested the other on his hip, elbow akimbo. He stalked to one wall, then turned sharply. "So sometime after you'd consummated the relationship with Sarah, but before--"

 

"Sherlock!" John shouted. Sherlock's head whipped around to face him. "When Angelo showed up at the door with my cane."

 

He could see Sherlock mentally flipping through files until he hit upon the right date. He made a face like he'd just bit into a lemon and John's stomach clenched. He waited for the incredulous expression and the derision that would follow, but instead, Sherlock's face went slack and unreadable.

 

"I'm an idiot," He said softly, a hint of wonder in his tone. Sherlock strode over to John and stopped directly in front of him. "Why didn't you say anything?"

 

"You'd made it quite clear that you weren't interested."

 

Sherlock's face melted into a grin. "You're an idiot," he said, sounding entirely too cheerful.

 

"Why's that, then?"

 

"Dim sum," Sherlock answered.

 

It took John a moment to process that. They'd had dim sum quite a few times, it having become sort of a ritual post-case meal since.... Oh.

 

"You're kidding me."

 

"You _had_ just killed a man to save me. It was... eye-opening."

 

John was sure he would spend a lot of time reviewing Sherlock's past behaviour for any possible indicators of interest later. "We're idiots," John agreed. He leaned forward and Sherlock met him halfway for the kiss.

 

They both seemed to agree that wasting any more time wasn't an option. They walked-kissed-stumbled to the nearest bed (John's, always closer to the door) and Sherlock pulled John down on top of him.

 

John set about unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, kissing a trail from the hollow of Sherlock's throat to just below his sternum. He pulled the shirt fully free of Sherlock's trousers, then slid his hands up over miles of pale skin. He'd seen Sherlock in various states of undress before, but he'd never let himself actually look. He traced defined muscles, dragging his fingers down through sparse chest hair and up again over Sherlock's collarbones, his touch light enough to make the man underneath him shiver.

 

His eyes focused on a tiny red mark where the lipstick had been the night before, probably from a too-sharp nip of teeth. He felt a tiny spike of jealousy and his jaw involuntarily tightened.

 

"I didn't sleep with her."

 

"Would you have?" John fitted his mouth squarely over the mark, biting down and then sucking the skin. He worried the flesh with his teeth and tongue, intent on overwriting the slight discolouration with a livid bruise of his own.

 

"Possibly, had she not been involved in the case. She was exceptionally bright, even when taking into account her current profession. I knew you were listening, by the way."

 

John ignored that last bit and focused on the other things he wanted to know, now that he felt he was allowed to ask the questions. He liked carrying on a conversation during foreplay. It was, in some ways, more intimate than the actual sex. He pulled his mouth from Sherlock's collarbone. "So you have before, with women?"

 

"Had sex? Yes. Is that important?" Sherlock's fingertips traced light circles on the skin of John's lower back.

 

John shivered. "No, just curious. Men too?" He ran his teeth lightly over Sherlock's shoulder.

 

Sherlock hummed in assent. "A few. You've never had sex with a man before without a woman being the focus of the encounter." He skimmed his fingernails lightly up John's sides.

 

"No, sure haven't." John shifted himself upward so his body fit tighter to Sherlock's. He ran the tip of his tongue around the shell of Sherlock's ear, grating his teeth softly against the cartilage before moving lower to suck the lobe into his mouth.

 

Sherlock made a low noise of pleasure, then asked, "Would you ever?"

 

"I'm trying to right now," John said lightly. He knew that Sherlock was referring to the abstract -- if, in another situation, with another man, John would have considered it. He didn't have to give much thought to his answer. "Honestly, no. You were right, I'm not usually attracted to men." The _only you_ was implied.

 

"Why me, then?" Sherlock asked with detached curiosity, but underneath was a thin thread of something else.

 

John propped one elbow next to Sherlock's head and looked down at him, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Is this where I tell you you're pretty?" He kept his tone playful as he trailed kisses over the light stubble on Sherlock's jaw. He was feeling a bit giddy and had no desire to break that mood. There would be plenty of time for addressing Sherlock's deeply buried insecurities later, but right then John wanted to just stay in the moment.

 

Sherlock humphed, but John continued. "Because you are. You're a very pretty man." John gave him a smacking kiss on the lips, then pulled back and smiled. "You'd make a terrible girl though."

 

Sherlock chuckled. "I've dressed up as a woman before, more than once. I didn't lack for attention."

 

"That's... unexpectedly hot."

 

"I can show you sometime."

 

John laughed as he ground down against Sherlock's hip. He bent down and claimed Sherlock's mouth again.

 

Minutes later, Sherlock broke away, panting. "Shoes."

 

John's brain was by then fully engaged in all things sexual. "That's fine, I can work with that." For someone John had thought of as asexual just the day before, Sherlock was turning out to be full of surprises.

 

Sherlock's calf flexed and John felt the tip of Sherlock's shoe tap the sole of his foot. Through his own shoe.

 

"Oh."

 

"Yes. Good to know you're amenable to accommodating any proclivities I might have, though," Sherlock said with dry amusement as John levered himself up and away. Sherlock toed of his insanely expensive shoes and they each hit the floor with a thunk.

 

John, always careful with his things, sat on the edge of the bed and untied his shoes. Sherlock knelt behind him, kissing the back of his neck and running his hands over John's flanks. John lined his shoes up side-by-side, then peeled his socks off and stuffed them into the shoes before sliding them under the bed. He needed that little moment of routine to ground himself. John wondered why it didn't feel more awkward, why he wasn't nervous or over-eager like he thought he should be.

 

He leaned back against Sherlock's chest and craned his neck for another kiss. Sherlock's hand cradled his jaw, fingertips caressing the skin below his ear. When John's neck began to ache, he pivoted so that one leg, bent at the knee, sat on the bed and his other foot rested on the floor. Sherlock sat back on his haunches and John chased him forward, leaning on one hand planted on the bed next to Sherlock's knee. He rested the other on Sherlock's thigh, hot through the fine wool of his trousers.

 

John could feel the mood shift to something headier, more serious. They were doing this. It had been a long time coming and now it was actually happening. Neither had mentioned love, but the intense, reverent look on Sherlock's face said more than any number of declarations could.

 

The hand on John's jaw migrated to his chest. Sherlock used it to gently push John back, then he shrugged out of his shirt and threw it somewhere in the vicinity of the foot of the bed. He leaned forward and his deft fingers made short work of the buttons on John's shirt. "Cuffs," he said.

 

John obediently held out one arm, then shifted his weight and offered the other for Sherlock to unbutton. Sherlock's fingertips skated over his wrist, then up his forearm and back down. He removed John's shirt and vest, then guided John to lie on the bed with another light shove to his chest.

 

Sherlock swung one impossibly long leg over John's, straddling his thighs. John's hands automatically went to rest just above Sherlock's bony knees. Sherlock leaned forward and planted one hand next to John's head, the other smoothed over John's arm. There was a moment when they held eye contact, and then Sherlock finally dipped his head and kissed John.

 

From there it was just a blur of sensation - sweat-slick skin salty and hot under John's mouth, soft murmurs of encouragement; the fine, silky hair of Sherlock's thigh against his cheek, Sherlock's hands seemingly everywhere all at once; the catch and slide of skin, breath caught in his chest; reaching, straining for the moment when everything fell away; a shaky, moist exhalation against his temple followed by the ghost of lips; Sherlock's body, solid and warm under him as the central air kicked on and chilled the skin of his back.

 

♥  ♦ ♣ ♠

 

John woke up to an empty bed, the sheets still warm beside him. He scratched idly at his stomach and stretched, enjoying the slight burn in his muscles. The shower was running in the en suite. He wondered if it was too soon in the relationship to use the toilet while Sherlock was in the shower, then laughed because they'd already hit that point a year ago. He thought vaguely that he should be freaking out, but he simply felt comfortable and content.

 

Objectively, he knew some things would change. There would eventually have to be a renegotiation of acceptable behaviour and new boundaries set. They'd have to decide upon sleeping arrangements. Little things, here and there, but really, they'd been living as a couple (more or less) for over a year, so there wouldn't be any big changes for either of them. They'd been pooling finances from the first month and arguing about money for just as long. The division of labour had already been squared away. There would have to be the exclusivity and relationship history talks, but John was in no rush for them, as the first seemed a bit of a moot point and the second was always a mixed bag of emotion.

 

Sherlock walked out of the bathroom stark naked, still towel-drying his hair. "You may as well have a lie-in. I've got a few things to wrap up with the head of security, and I've been told they want me to give some god-awful soundbite about losing gracefully for the highlight reel. I'm tempted to tell them I lost on purpose because I was tired of waiting to shag my flatmate." He tossed his wet towel onto the bed and rummaged through his suitcase for clean pants.

 

John shoved the wet towel onto the floor with his foot before the moisture could leech into the bedding. "But you didn't lose on purpose."

 

"I did," Sherlock said, beginning to dress. "Roylott tongues the inside of his teeth when he's got risky hand and contemplating a bluff, and his nostrils flare when he's confident the odds are in his favour. I knew before I went all-in that he had the winning hand. I could have dragged the game out for hours, had I wanted to."

 

"Amazing," John said softly, shaking his head. "But that other hand -- you had to have known that you had almost no chance of winning?"

 

Sherlock grinned, then clambered over the bed to kiss John soundly. "I told you, I was feeling lucky."

 

**Author's Note:**

> **An Over-simplified Guide to Texas Hold 'em:**
> 
> Each player is dealt two cards face down. A total of five communal cards (flop, turn, river; see below) are then laid on the table face up. The player who has the best five-card hand (using the total of seven cards available) wins.
> 
>  
> 
> **Quick-n-dirty Texas Hold 'em Terminology Glossary:**
> 
> **flop:** first three communal cards dealt, all three at once  
>  **turn card:** the fourth communal card dealt  
>  **river card:** the fifth and final communal card dealt  
>  **pot:** all the chips bet in a hand, collected by the winner  
>  **big blind:** mandatory bet by the player to the immediate left of the dealer  
>  **small blind:** mandatory bet to by the player to the immediate left of the player who puts up the big blind, half the amount of the big blind (example: the big blind player is required to bet 100 chips, the small blind must then bet 50). Both blinds are used to "seed the pot," ensuring there is money to be won in the hand, even if no one else places a bet.  
>  **short stack:** the player with the least amount of chips  
>  **suited/ on-suit:** two cards of the same suit. Two hearts, two clubs, etc. Having two cards on-suit is the foundation for a flush (five cards of the same suit, non-sequential) or a straight flush (five cards of the same suit, in sequential order, such as 2-3-4-5-6)  
>  **off-suit:** two cards of different suits.  
>  **pocket:** (as in pocket jacks, pocket aces, etc.) the two cards a player is dealt  
>  **bluff:** instead of folding an inferior hand, a player continues to play it in order to make the other players think they're holding a winning hand.  
>  **deuce:** a card with the face value of two  
>  **check:** to not bet, with the option to raise or call later in the betting round.  
>  **all-in:** when a player bets all of their remaining chips.


End file.
